World War 3
by It's a Wallflower Thing
Summary: AU. Renesmee has grown up in a toxic environment. Her parents engage in screaming matches every night and she has never met her family. With the help of a special friend, can she change her life for the better? Nessie/Jake eventually B/E
1. Slammed Doors

AN: Hey, guys! This is my first fanfiction. It takes place in an alternative universe, and it's basically about Renesmee changing her life for the better, in a way. Reviews are greatly appreciated, so don't hesitate to leave one! Enjoy

DISCLAIMER: As much as I'd love to own Edward Cullen (wink wink), I don't. Stephenie Meyer does, along with everything else Twilight-related.

I hate many things in life. I hate when my food touches. I hate when there's no chocolate milk left in the cafeteria. I hate when there's nothing on TV. But the one thing I hate the most is the sound of slammed doors.

Unfortunately, this is the one I have to deal with the most. The worst part about slammed doors is that you never get used to it. There's just so much that's said with the harsh contact of the door to the wall. It's like a slap in the face, only in my opinion, it hurts ten times worse.

I can't figure out what's worse, being in pain or seeing someone you love in pain. I think that seeing someone you love in pain is much worse. That, or the feeling that there's absolutely nothing you can do about it that comes along with the territory. You can just watch them scream, cry, drown into the deep, dark ocean that's their life, and it's taking you under.

"Nessie?" My mother peers into my room. Her voice is shaky, a little quiet, like it always is after a nasty blowout. I roll over in my bed to face the doorway. In the dim light of the hallway, I can see she's a wreck. Her hair resembles a haystack, her clothes are hanging off her, and she's slouched over gently. I can faintly smell the rotten alcohol seeping off her skin, the smell that I've grown to loathe.

I answer her by moving over a few inches in my small twin bed. She hobbles over to me and lifts the duvet. I watch her collapse into the small space beside me. I can't hear her, but I can feel the bed lightly shake as her chest unevenly rises. She's crying again. I feel a lump rising in my throat, but I swallow it down. I can't be the weak one at a time like this. I reach for her hand, but when I touch it, she flinches. That's when she looks up and I see how badly off she truly is. Her eyes are rimmed with thousands of tiny blood red veins and are weighed down with dark black-blue bags. However, it's not what's on the outside that hurts. It's what I can see from the inside, the soul that the eyes show. My mother, my hero, the single person I could always count on to endure anything, has been beaten to a pulp. Her heart has been hammered down so many times that there's barely anything left. Her soul has been shattered into a million pieces, far too many to try to pick up. Despite myself, I feel a single tear roll down my face. My mother sits up, and I sit up with her. She's bawling now, and I can't help but tuck my face into her chest and cry with her. It can't be like this. It shouldn't be like this. But it is like this, and there's nothing I can do about it.

As far back as I can remember, my house has been a war zone. I never grew up with the sound of music, or the feeling of warm hugs. I grew up with the sound of smashed bottles and the feeling of tears rolling down my face. I never sat with my family at night and watched a movie, like other families did. I stayed upstairs, tucked away in my room while my parents argued downstairs. I'd hear streams of profanities; thuds against walls, and the initial door slamming that followed every argument. Sometimes, my dad would wake me up in the middle of the night to say good-bye for a few weeks. Other times, like tonight, my mother would wake me up and crawl into bed with me. I never was quite sure if she was comforting me or if she was trying to make herself feel better. Sometimes we would talk. Sometimes we would lay in silence. Sometimes she would collapse into my bed. Sometimes she would pass out before she even reached the bed. And sometimes, the worst times, she cried. I hated it when she cried. I hated seeing her in pain, but I've never really known anything else. You know, I don't think I've ever seen my mother happy. Indifferent, maybe. But happy? Now that I think of it, I don't think I've ever seen my dad happy, either. They're not happy. I'm reminded of this fact every morning that I go down to breakfast. The first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen is my dad to take a swig of his whiskey to get through the day. After he takes his "daily dose," as he calls it, he kisses me on the forehead and walks back upstairs to his room. I used to hate the feeling I'd get after he left. It was the feeling of abandonment, of being forgotten. After a while, it became routine. I'll never really get used to it, but I deal.

I deal. That's the whole definition of my situation. I detest living in the toxic wasteland I call home, but I deal. I can't stand being weak while my mother's the one fighting, but I'm dealing.

"Nessie," my mother mutters, "listen to me." Her words are slurred, and her voice sounds scratchy, but I give her my undivided attention. "Someday, things will be better for you. I pray to God that things will be better."

The words echoed around my head for a while. "I pray to God things will get better." I pray that every day too, Mom, but He never listens.

World War 3

When I wake the next day, the sun is already seeping through the curtains next to my bed. I squint my eyes and roll over to find no one. The space that was occupied by my mother last night is now just a trace of wrinkled sheets. I sigh and roll on my back. It's a Saturday, my least favorite day of the week. Saturday night fights are always the worst. They're usually the only violent fights of the week. This might be because my parents spend the whole day together, a feat for both of them. They usually don't come into contact with each other, but they're in the same breathing space. That's enough.

I don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to face another day in this hellhole in stuck in, but I really have no other choice.

Completely dreading the next twelve hours or so, I push the duvet off me and drag myself to the mirror on top of my dresser. I don't look as bad as my mother, but I don't look like a bouquet of roses. My long, brown curly hair feels…damp. I guess we did a lot of crying last night. My eyes are still red around the edges. Should I do something about this? It won't matter if I don't. I simply wipe them with my fist and walk to my doorway. From my doorway, I can see into my parents' room. My dad is sprawled out on the bed. It looks like he had another restless night. His shirt is twisted around his torso and the blankets are in a pile next to the bed. I sigh and make my way to his room. When I get there, I plop myself on the bed next to him. He breathes heavily and asks, "Ness, is that you?"

I'm slightly tempted to say, "Who else would it be?" but we both know who else it would be, who it _should_ be. Instead, I reply, "Yeah, Dad. I'm here."

His sleep-lidded eyes slowly open to meet mine and a smile creeps at the corners of his thin lips. Honestly, it makes my entire day to see at least a trace of a smile. I can't do anything but beam back at him and enjoy the almost picture-perfect moment while it lasts.

"What time is it?" He asks me groggily. I glance at the analog clock sitting on the antique nightstand next to the bed and say, "10:17."

I know we're thinking the same thing. We're thinking that my mother's up. We're thinking that she's sitting downstairs. We're wondering how she's going to react to him this morning. It's different every morning. She's either mad at him or indifferent. She's _never_ happy to see him. Ever. It's not like he's thrilled to see her either, though.

"How bad was it last night?" He asks me in a solemn voice. It's hard to read his expression. I can tell he's trying to conceal some sort of emotion, but what, I'm not sure.

"Feel my hair," I say. He reaches out and twists an already twisted curl in his coarse, large fingers. He sighs, but doesn't let go of my hair. We lay there in silence, him running his fingers through a tendril of my hair, me thinking of what my mother would do if she walked into the room. The fighting would probably start earlier than 8 tonight, and it would be over me. Those are the worst kind of fights.

"I'm hungry," I lie as I sit up in bed. My dad props himself up on his elbow.

"Do you want me to make you anything?" He asks me.

"I'm sure my mother has something made downstairs," I answer. The silence that follows is awkward. He knows that he can't eat breakfast with me while my mother's around. I can tell this displeases him. It gives me a little bit of comfort that he cares, though.

"Um, I'll see you later," I say after a few moments as I stand up and walk to the doorway.

"Ness?" He calls after me as I'm halfway out the door. I spin on my heel and see him completely sitting up now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.


	2. Long Days

**AN:** Hello again, my wonderful readers! Thanks for checking out World War 3. If you were one of the four people who read the first chapter, sorry this took so long. I wasn't really feeling any motivation, but guess what kept me going. REVIEWS. Well, one review. Jacobblackishawt, this chapter's for you. If anyone else wants more, review, review, review (and enjoy)!

**DISCLAIMER: I own NOTHING. Y'all hear?! Nothing Twilight related. Or Obama. I don't own Obama.**

They say that time flies when you're having fun. This must be why the hours always drag along on Saturdays. This Saturday seemed to be particularly nasty. The sun was shining when I awoke, but shortly after I finished breakfast, I heard the rain pounding against the walls. I didn't mind. I'm used to the rain. On the peak of Mt. Washington, New Hampshire, it's always raining, snowing, or overcast.

Breakfast was fairly uneventful. I had been right when I told my dad that my mother made me something. She had a whole feast laid out on our dining room table. It wasn't a special occasion or anything. She always keeps herself productive when she doesn't want to think about something. She always overloads herself with something else. This morning it just happened to be cooking.

"Morning, Nessie. What do you want for breakfast? We have bacon, eggs, pancakes, French toast-"

"I'll just have cereal," I answered after she attacked me. I could tell that she had been up for a while. Her eyes weren't red like mine anymore. She must have run water over them for a few hours. She also had makeup covering the bags under her eyes. Her hair was curled into loose tendrils around her face. I could tell what she was trying to do. She was trying to cover it up, to act like it never happened when we both knew very well that it did. It was the dark cloud that hung above us as we ate in silence.

"Are you going to be around today?" She asked as I laid my bowl next to the sink for her to clean. Her voice had a hint of desperateness to the edges. The truth was, I wasn't going to be home. I was going to have lunch at the diner in town with my best friend Nahuel.

Nahuel and I have been inseparable since the first day of Kindergarten. We had to color a picture of an apple. I had colored mine red.

_ "Apples aren't red!" He had exclaimed and pointed a small finger at my picture._

_ "Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?" I asked him._

_ "Yeah, they're green!" He argued._

_ "Are not!"_

_ "Are too!"_

_ "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"_

That's when Nahuel lost it. He lunged at me and gave me a bloody nose. I gave him a black eye. The teacher gave us a time-out together and for some reason that defies all the laws of the universe, we became best friends. You see, Nahuel and I are complete opposites. I love to read. He's addicted to his Xbox. I'm quieter than a mouse. He's the most outgoing person I've ever met. I like to keep the peace. He'll do anything to get a rouse out of someone. Despite all this, we've been best friends for 11 years and somehow it just works. I think it's because he's good for me. Nahuel can make me crack up out of nowhere about something that happened last year. He finds the best in every situation, and even if there is nothing good in a situation, he'll make fun of it and laugh at it.

After what happened last night, I needed to see Nahuel to get my mind off of things or at least laugh about it. But the way my mother looked at me…it would have been criminal to leave. Her big brown eyes, the same eyes as mine, looked at me with a way of longing that I just couldn't refuse. I knew I couldn't leave her alone in the same house as my dad. As far as I know, they haven't been alone in the same house since before I was born. Sometimes, I wonder how I was born. I mean, they must have been happy sometime. Did they ever love each other? How did they get married? What in the world happened that made their marriage fall apart? If they hate each other so damn much, why don't they just get a divorce?

I asked my mother that one time a few years ago. My dad had been gone for over a month, and I guess I wasn't thinking straight. I simply thought it would be easier to live in different houses.

"I can't leave," she told me curtly. And that was all. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get any more out of her. _I can't leave._ Why not, Mom? Could you please explain this to me, because I don't understand at all.

I also don't understand why my dad comes back every time he goes away. It's not like my mom's waiting for him at the door with a turkey on the table and pumpkin pie for dessert. She normally doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he's home until they fight.

My dad's not stupid, either. He went to college for eight years. He's a cardiologist, which means he's either at work or working at home a _lot_. I think he uses this to his advantage. When he comes home every night, he grabs something from the fridge, talks to me for a few minutes, and then disappears into his "lair" as Nahuel calls it. Nahuel has this insane notion that my dad's a vampire because he only comes out at night to argue with my mom. I'm fairly certain that my dad's not a vampire.

"Nessie? You still with me?" My mother asked me. I guessed I must have spaced off. My bad.

"Yeah, I'll be home today," I told her. Her eyes lit up with excitement.

"Great! You can help me make lunch, and then we can make cookies, and some brownies! Would you like that? I've been in the mood for some brownies lately. Then we can make this new lasagna recipe that I've been wanting to try forever for dinner…is your dad going to be home today?"

It's amazing how her mood can go from sky high to all-time low with just a single thought of my dad. I shrugged honestly. I never know where he is. When he goes away, sometimes I don't know he's truly gone until a day passes and he isn't there to take his "daily dose" in the morning. I would say that I wish he was always home, but I don't. There would be only more fighting and more awkwardness. I absolutely hate to admit it, but I like it better when he's gone.

"Can you ask him? I don't want him getting in the way," she said. I sighed in reply. It's pathetic how they can't even talk to each other unless they're yelling. I stood up and made my way up the stairs.

When I reached my dad's room, to my surprise, he was standing in front of the mirror tying his tie I bought him last Christmas. My heart fell a little when I saw him in nice clothes, obviously not staying-at-home attire. So he was leaving again. Who knew for how long? I wanted to rip the stupid tie out of his hands and command him to stay. I want him to stay long enough to fix the damage of the last seventeen years, but that would probably take another seventeen.

I lightly tapped on the doorway. He swiftly turned around and froze when he saw me. He knows I don't like it when he goes away.

"Where are you going?" I asked. He opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out.

Silence.

"Are you going to be gone long?" I asked after a few moments of mouth gaping and awkwardly waiting. He let out a large, overdramatic sigh.

"Ness, listen to me," he said as he sauntered over to me. Now it was my turn to sigh. When he reached me, he put his hands on my shoulders and led me gently to the bed. "I love you. I love being around you and spending as much time with you as possible. Whenever we're together, we have fun, right?"

"Whenever we're together…" I muttered. He sighed once more, just like I do when I'm frustrated.

"This thing…it's complicated. I don't expect you to understand now. You'll understand when you're older-"

"Why do you always say that? You'll understand when you're older, you'll understand when you're older, well I _am_ older and I still don't understand why I can't sleep through a single night because you're either telling me goodbye or mom's crying herself to sleep!" I shouted as I stood up.

"Renesmee, wait," he followed after me, but you know what I did? I slammed the door in his face. See how much that hurts, Dad. See how much you hurt me _every day._

About ten minutes later, he left for the land of the unknown and I was stuck with my mother for the day. After an hour of baking cookies with her, I was so fed up that I retreated to my room for the rest of the day. I love the woman, but when she's bothered by something, she talks and talks about everything but the issue. A lot of times, it's too much for me to handle, and that's when I remove myself from the situation. I went up to my room and read Wuthering Heights for the thousandth time. And that's pretty much where the story leaves me now. I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, dabbing my brown eyes with a tissue. I cried again. I cry every time I read it. I cry far too much.

I glance at the clock, which reads 5:46. It's almost time for dinner. If it's a normal Saturday night, my dad will be back in a few hours and then…I don't want to think about what normally comes next. I really hope he doesn't come back. Dad, please don't come back.

"Nessie, dinner's ready!" My mother calls from downstairs. When I see her smiling face at the bottom of the steps, I decide that I'm staying optimistic. Nothing is going to happen tonight. He's going to stay away for the night, and we're going to be just fine.

Too bad I'm an eternal pessimist.

Walking into the dining room, I can feel the tension dripping down the walls. There's something about the light that hits the two white plates set out on the table that hurts my eyes. The air feels heavy as I slowly take it in and out…

"_Nessie!_" My mother calls from the doorway. My head snaps up to her. I didn't even know my head was down. She puts down her plate of chicken and runs over to me. Oh, goodness. She looks worried. She slaps her hand on my forehead.

"Mom! What is it?" I ask.

"You look paler than a ghost! Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm fine," I assure her. She doesn't need any more pressure than she already has. She's probably thinking the same thing I am. Dad will be home soon, and it won't be pretty. It's hard to say if he'll have been drinking, but I hope with all of my heart that he hasn't been. The fights are bad enough when he's sober.

During dinner, I can see that my mother's worried out of her mind. She rattles on and on about this birdfeeder she fixed today. I didn't even know we _owned_ a birdfeeder. I respond with a chorus of yeahs and okays. Truth is that I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the clock behind her. I can feel my shoulders tense up by the minute. He's going to be home soon if he comes home at all.

I can't eat. I can barely pretend I'm eating. I can only stir my rice around. My mother, however, is different. I think she's had about four servings of rice already. I don't know how she fits it in with all of the talking she's doing. I couldn't even get a word in if I wanted to.

"…and I just think that Obama's not doing the best job with the health care situation-"

_Click._

A wave of fear washes over me like a waterfall. My heart races fast, faster than 100 miles a minute. The air seems to stand completely still. The silence is so loud it hurts my ears. My mother's chest rises quickly up and down, up and down, and I know we're thinking the same thing.

_He's home._


End file.
